The Thirteenth Sign
by ShadowyTemptress
Summary: Jean de Treville, Guardian of the Zodiac, had only two jobs - watch over the vessels of the Zodiac Spirits, and seek out the Serpent Bearer to prevent a terrible prophecy from coming true. Naturally, everything goes horribly wrong thanks to the Astrologer Richelieu's pride, and the world now faces its destruction. Could the Chosen Four be found before it's too late? Crack AU.
1. Prologue: The Thief

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or the TV show. All of them belong to their respective owners.

* * *

 **November 29**

"Armand, it's gone," a middle-aged blond man whispered, his voice betraying the dread he felt at not being able to prevent what had happened under his nose. The man was Jean de Treville, Guardian of the Zodiac, the thirteenth of the Treville bloodline. He had one task, and that was to seal the spirit of the Serpent Bearer and ensure the terrible prophecy, spoken of since the guardianship of the first Treville, did not come to pass. As he looked down into the ornate wooden chest, at the empty spot where a black stone was supposed to be, he knew that he had failed.

Another man, his hair gray, his eyes icy and his body clad in a fine burgundy coat, looked up from the papers in front of him, stood up from his seat, stepped behind the Guardian and followed the latter's gaze to the chest's velvet-lined interior. Armand de Richelieu was the Astrologer, one who had the power to read the stars and spoke their secrets. By day he was the Archbishop, his demeanor commanding respect and fear from most. In reality however, he was one of merely two people who knew the truth of the Zodiac, a truth that had existed since the beginning of time. It was him who knew the language of the stars, and who bore the burden of keeping its secrets from the rest of the world, a world with a people that both did not believe, and feared its own ruin.

It was for the common good, both men thought, that the prophecy be prevented from passing beyond the doors of the hidden sanctum. Richelieu in particular, opposed the revelation of the augury. He doubted the people's capacity to believe and leave matters to the two of them, for he knew a terrible secret that the stars had whispered to him, a secret he never once breathed to the Guardian, until today.

"You had one job, Jean. One job," he spoke slowly, before placing his hands on the shoulders of the shorter man and turning him around abruptly. Richelieu's eyes were cold with fury, his mouth twisted into an expression of anger.

"Tell me, imbecile, did you misplace it? Or did you let someone with half the brains I have take off with it?" The Astrologer's voice was cold and hard. Treville looked away in shame, not wanting to look into the eyes of the man he considered his only friend.

"I saw nothing and heard nothing, Armand. I'm telling you, this is no normal act of burglary," he admitted, looking back into the box once more, where twelve, rather than thirteen, stones lay. Both of them knew too well which stone was missing – the Ophiuchus stone, the only one that held no spirit within it. Tonight was the night they were to seal it, the night of Ophiuchus' rising, but it appeared that somebody had found out their terrible secret and stolen the vessel.

Richelieu thought about his secret once more. While the Guardian had not been the most watchful, he could not help but hold himself at least partially responsible for hiding things from the man as well. He knew of the Guardian's burden of protecting the Zodiac spirits and seeking out Ophiuchus; and he did not want to add to it. He realized at that moment, however, that it had been a mistake. Only months prior, stars had given him a warning and a name, yet he failed to warn the man, thinking that it was his own duty to deal with the dark sorcerer who bore the dreaded name, the sorcerer who would very soon bring about doom if nothing was to be done.

At that single moment, he realized his own pride, and whose error it truly was.

"Rochefort," he murmured, fear in his once-lofty voice. It was, as he dreaded. "I'm sorry, Jean. I'm so sorry," he apologized, letting go of the Guardian in shame. Treville jerked forward and grabbed the older man's hand, tugging at it roughly. The gray-haired man turned around, the look in his eyes one of regret and pain.

"Why didn't you tell me?! Who is this Rochefort?" Treville demanded, his blue eyes flashing and his usually calm demeanor replaced by one of anger.

"I was proud, Jean. I wanted to spare you the burden; I thought that I would be able to prevent this from coming to pass. Instead, I've doomed this world. As for who he is, I do not know. I do know, however, that very soon, he will absorb the spirit of the Snake Bearer and its vast powers," Richelieu sighed, turning to face Treville once more. "If he is not stopped before the turn of the year, our end will come as he wreaks havoc. The Serpent Bearer's spirit, the element of the void…they are not meant to be contained by anything other than its vessel, and certainly not within one man," he cautioned.

"But the prophecy…it's impossible. How could the twelve spirits of the Wheel be held in four chosen?" Treville asked, his Arian temper cooling down as he saw the remorse on the Astrologer's face. He shook his head and exhaled. "I might forgive you when the end comes, but I'm sure that many others would not. You truly doomed us all, Armand," he murmured, his shoulders slumping.

Richelieu stood silently, taking in the gravity of the Guardian's words. How indeed, could twelve spirits reside in the body of but four? Treville had told him of the Spirits' nature – powerful, volatile and unpredictable. For one to house a Spirit was already a risk. How much more dangerous was it for four people to house twelve Spirits? For a few moments, the Astrologer could not think of anything, until he recalled a phrase his father and mentor always repeated.

For like attracts like, Richelieu thought, remembering the nature of the Spirits. Three were of Fire, three were of Earth, and three were of Air and three of Water. The prophecy had spoken of the four chosen wielding the four Elements alongside bearing the twelve Spirits. If like truly attracted like, perhaps there was a way.

"Jean, recite the part in the prophecy about the chosen, " he urged, desperate to find an answer. The younger man nodded as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth.

 _The Harbinger will bring the end_

 _Lest four Chosen by the Elements and the Constellations_

 _Come together as one_

 _Water, mysterious and deep_

 _An enigma, unyielding as the waves, hard as ice_

 _Air, tender yet fierce_

 _Gentle as a zephyr, ruthless as the tempest_

 _Earth, strong and sure_

 _Steady as the ground, a diamond in the rough_

 _Fire, passionate and wild_

 _A bright flame, near impossible to tame_

Treville finished, looking expectantly at Richelieu, as if to ask him if a solution had been found.

"Like attracts like, Jean. The Spirits are drawn to individuals whom they are matched with, Air to one of Air, Earth to one of Earth. Do you get where I'm heading to?" Richelieu spoke, his voice holding a certainty that the Guardian could not ignore. The latter nodded his head slowly.

"Each person has three important signs, Jean. There is the Sun Sign, the Moon Sign and the Ascendant. Three affinities. Each of our chosen four must have three different affinities with the Zodiac, all of the same Element, within him or her. Each of our four must be associated with a different element," he explained, before turning around and heading to his desk to pick up one of his charts.

"If like attracts like, I have a theory that this is how the chosen will arise," he continued, pointing at the twelve glyphs on the wheel, first the ones of Water, inked in blue, then the silver ones of Air, followed by the green ones of Earth, and lastly, the red ones of Fire. Treville nodded in understanding, before turning his head towards the chest once more, looking down at the twelve stones that served as vessels for the Zodiac Spirits.

"That actually might work," he began, before shaking his head. "But we only have until the turn of the year, Armand. How could we be sure that it wouldn't take that long for the Spirits to choose their hosts?"

"You forget that as the Astrologer, I could enchant them, direct them to their paths. They will find their way," Richelieu replied rather smugly.

"Before you get any ideas, Armand, I will not be one of them. My burden is already a difficult one," Treville warned, giving him a dark look.

* * *

Hello, readers! I'm Rose and I just recently got addicted to this show! Alas, I'm no skilled writer, so I'm happy with writing crack fiction, where I can go wild with weird plots and OOC moments!

This idea came to my head when I wondered what signs the Musketeers would have, being into astrology myself. I then decided that using the Zodiac _is_ a crazy crack idea, hehe! I posted this somewhere else as well, but I keep forgetting to make an account on here! Nevertheless, here it is! Enjoy!

The setting is modern, though I did not specify the year, as it would be very hard to get the Zodiac data right if I did, considering that the characters have birthdays, ages and even times of birth (I consulted some ascendant charts to give roughly appropriate birth times).

Here are Treville's and Richelieu's Zodiac data, for references, head canons and whatever! I'll be posting important characters' Zodiac data after every chapter!

 **Jean de Treville** | _Guardian of the Zodiac  
_ **Age:** 44  
 **Birthday:** April 13, 5:38 AM  
 **Sun Sign:** Aries  
 **Moon Sign:** Libra  
 **Ascendant:** Taurus

 **Armand de Richelieu** | _Astrologer_ _  
_ **Age:** 54  
 **Birthday:** September 9, 9:34 AM  
 **Sun Sign:** Virgo  
 **Moon Sign:** Pisces  
 **Ascendant:** Scorpio

 _And…who are these Chosen Four of the Wheel? Who will be chosen by the Elements to stop Ophiuchus?_


	2. Earth: Diamond in the Rough

**Paris, November 30, Night**

Porthos du Vallon opened one eye, and then another, finding himself sprawled on the floor in the middle of a familiar, dimly lit establishment, the strong smell of ammonia, rising from a bottle grasped in a long-fingered hand connected to a familiar leather-clad arm, wafting into his nose. Pushing himself up with one strong arm as he rubbed his throbbing head with the other, he blinked once, then twice, trying to get accustomed to the warm orange light that assaulted his vision.

"Wh-what happened?" He asked, looking around, the fog in his mind only just lifting. He was inside his bar, The Court of Miracles, or "The Court" as many called it, recognizing the strange combination of its rustic yet warm interior design, surprisingly expensive pieces here and there, and its eclectic assortment of unusual decor, a design choice he had made entirely by himself and was particularly proud of. Several pairs of worried eyes, belonging to people sitting on tall bar stools, chairs and velvet couches, stared back at him.

"What do you think happened?" A voice replied in a familiarly dry manner, coming from Porthos' left. It belonged to a man with piercing blue eyes, fair brown hair and porcelain skin, dressed in an expensive dark peacoat, a deep blue scarf of fine wool lazily draped over his neck, his inscrutable expression a mask for his concern, and a half-empty bottle of Delirium Noël dangling between two white fingers. His breath smelled heavily of alcohol, a symptom of his proclivity for drink. "You collapsed outside, Porthos," he pointed out matter-of-factly, not sounding the least bit intoxicated, despite having drunk more than any other remotely sober person in the bar.

"Athos, I swear I didn't-…" Porthos started, meaning to argue that he wasn't in any way intoxicated, but was interrupted by someone putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Of course you didn't, or are you so old that you forgot?" The teasing voice of another man cut in. Aramis, naturally, Porthos thought as he turned his head, towards his other friend, who was now pocketing the smelling salts. Aramis was lean, dark-haired and handsome, his tight, black biker leathers hugging his body like a second skin. Unlike the near-unfathomable Athos of the serious, melancholy disposition, Aramis was an odd paradox with an easy smile, no filter, and a reckless streak, both a romantic and a heartbreaker, charming, kindhearted and friendly, yet had a ruthless and gleefully sadistic side to him. "You've been out for fifteen minutes."

"Piss off," Porthos muttered as he picked himself up, Athos grabbing one of his arms to steady him. A sharp pain pressed down on his chest, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to embarrass himself further. The last thing he wanted was for his roguish friend to find reason to mock him at his expense once again. The blue-eyed man leaned close to his friend's ear, his eyes flicking towards the onlookers.

"Better we take this outside, now's not the time to speak of what we saw," he breathed, patting Porthos' shoulder a couple of times. "Best that you head home and rest as well. Flea told Aramis that she'd take over."

What we saw? Porthos wondered to himself as he tried to look back on what exactly made him, steady, sure-footed, obviously-not-drunk Porthos, pass out outside. Instinctively, he placed a hand over his chest, rubbing at the material of his dark red Henley shirt, feeling no sign of blood or holes that might have pointed to an ambush, an uncommon occurrence even for the part of Paris where the bar was. What then, had his two best friends seen outside?

"Gods Porthos, just listen to them and get the hell home before I change my mind," the aforementioned Flea snapped from behind the bar's counter, her hands on her hips and a scowl darkening her pretty face. Porthos looked back at her and smiled tiredly. He did not want to burden his oldest friend with taking an extra four hours; the night was still young after all, and he wasn't feeling that bad, apart from a slight headache. Yet he also knew that when it came to Flea, he was always going to end up losing and giving in.

"Alright, alright. I know there's no arguing with you, Flea," he gave in with a sigh, putting his hands up in the air in mock surrender. Athos held out Porthos' military-style winter jacket for him to put on, while Aramis picked up his helmet from the table. The three of them walked out of the bar at the same time, closing the door behind them. The chill of early winter took over their bodies, a far cry from the warmth of the bar.

"Remind me to bring the handcuffs the next time you put your hands in the air," Aramis laughed breezily, placing an arm around Porthos' shoulder. Athos groaned, wrapping his warm scarf tighter around his neck as a cold breeze blew past.

"Keep your kinks to yourself and stop torturing him," he warned the younger man, before he pointed at what appeared to be a dent on the pavement. "There, Porthos. That was the spot,"

Porthos stepped slowly towards it; his urge to know stronger than in the past minutes, his eyes focused on the odd crack he swore had not been there until now. He knelt on the cold, hard concrete and stroked his fingers over the jagged fracture, which ran the entire width of the sidewalk, with a gentle manner that was unexpectedly tender to those who did not know him, yet came as no surprise to those who did. He rubbed the aching side of his head with his free hand as he dove into the depths of his memory. Sturdily built and strong he might have been, but even he doubted that a simple collapse could have resulted in literally splitting the pavement in half.

And then, everything came back to him as his fingers caressed the fissure for the second time. Green lights, three green lights, he thought as he remembered what had happened.

* * *

 _Porthos stepped out of the bar, distracted by some shouting a short distance away. It was most likely a drunken brawl, he thought, all too used to them, and he knew he had to break the thugs up before things turned ugly. Before he could turn his head towards the source of the noise however, an odd surprise greeted him. A trio of green balls of glowing light, floated in front of him. For a few moments, they hovered, unmoving and their glow waxing and waning ever so slightly._

 _He was not prepared for what happened next, for the three green orbs shot forward simultaneously before the man could react, and buried themselves into his chest._

 _He had not expected the impact of three simple light orbs to hurt so much, or burn so much. The light had forced itself into his chest with the sensation of a brand imprinting itself onto his skin._

 _Then, the silent explosion happened, the emerald flare sending a wave of dizziness to his head and nearly blinding him. He had stepped back, planting his foot down firmly to steady himself. Turned out, the ground was not exactly all that steady; it gave way under him with a crack and he fell backwards, hitting the back of his head and passing out._

* * *

"Three green lights…explosion," he realized out loud, looking back at both of his friends. Had they really seen the same thing? Porthos was not typically one to believe in strange happenings unless he saw them, yet here he was, having apparently witnessed something he might have thought was implausible just a few minutes ago. Were his best friends really going to believe him, or would they dismiss what he said? Would they think that the usually levelheaded Porthos had somehow just been hallucinating?

"Exactly," Athos confirmed, Aramis nodding in agreement. The two men knelt beside Porthos as the tall, dark man placed his palm down on the fissure, noticing that it was oddly warm, too warm even, considering the frost.

"Gods, Porthos…would you look at that," Aramis looked at Porthos, and then the crack, his expression one of disbelief. The taller man quirked a dark brow in response.

"Look at what, 'Mis?" He asked, before noticing the shift in Aramis' gaze. He followed it, his eyes falling on the crack once more; only the crack was not anymore how it was when he first saw it. Rather than merely a vertical split, there was now a short, horizontal fracture bisecting the first, its line as jagged as its predecessor. The glow of energy, a familiar shade of green, faintly emanated from it.

"We have to get you out of here," Athos muttered, and Porthos sensed the fear in his voice, though he did not understand why.

"Who knows who might take advantage of you when they see this? When they find out?" Athos continued, effectively answering Porthos' question.

"I'll take him, Athos. You drive too slowly, and his car's still at the shop," Aramis offered smoothly, before helping Porthos up. The older man huffed indignantly at the remark.

"He isn't serious. I mean, nobody drives as slowly as the Archbishop," Porthos assured, cracking a smile. Athos crossed his arms, ready to retaliate with a comeback of his own.

"I'll be having Porthos. The weight of you both will break your precious Harley," Athos countered, his voice and expression deadpan, though his eyes betrayed his jest. This did not stop Aramis from snorting with chagrin, however, as Athos got the last laugh.

* * *

Armand de Richelieu had a difficult time keeping up with the black Porsche that he had seen the Chosen of Earth enter, even though he found himself driving faster than he was used to – which was truthfully not all that much faster. He knew he should have thanked the stars for his luck that at least one of the Chosen had been found in Paris. However, he could not help but wish that the Zodiac had picked another man. He preferred that the four chosen be people of control, refinement and noble bearing, and the man he had witnessed in front of the bar, the one the elements had led him to was anything but.

Yet in the end, it was not his place to argue with the stars.

He sat in wait behind the wheel as the Chosen stepped out of the black Porsche in front of him, followed by another man, expensively-dressed and fair of countenance, who hugged him and bid him goodbye.

As the car drove off, the Astrologer decided to make his move before he missed the opportunity. He opened the door of his Lexus and stepped out, arranging the bottom of his black overcoat as he did.

"Archbishop Richelieu?" The dark-skinned man exclaimed; dark eyes trained on Richelieu. The Astrologer raised a hand in greeting before approaching the younger man purposefully.

"Chosen of Earth," he whispered, prompting the Chosen to give him a look, the darkness and the scar over his left eye giving the illusion of an intimidating expression. Richelieu wasn't shaken, however.

"You will know in time, if you come with me," he promised. The man picked at one of the brass buttons of his military-style jacket, as if wavering over his choice. He stood his ground, however, rather than head back into the apartment complex.

"Tell me your name, Chosen," the Astrologer prompted, his blue eyes fixed onto the younger man's brown. "How old are you, and what of the day you were born?"

"Porthos du Vallon, Most Reverend," he began, his tone laced with contempt and his breath coming out in white puffs. He hesitated slightly before he spoke once more. "Twenty-eight. April twenty-second."

 _Interesting, a Taurean_ , Richelieu thought. He knew that the Zodiac would not have chosen any man if the conditions were not met, and standing in front of him was a rare sort – someone who possessed the qualities of a Chosen.

"Come with me, Porthos du Vallon. You must know, before time runs out," he whispered, his proud demeanor breaking as he took Porthos' rough hand in his own smooth one. "Now's not the time to doubt, no harm will come to you," he promised, realizing once more the enormity of his situation.

What right did he have to be picky, when the prophecy was already coming to pass? Perhaps this man was not as he first thought after all, but rather, a diamond in the rough.

* * *

 **Paris, December 1, Midnight**

The sound of windows being flung open cut through the night and the silence of the dark, empty street. Nobody, however, witnessed the odd sight that followed – that of a man jumping out, a brief, bright flash of silver light, a sudden updraft that somehow shimmered faintly with the same color of starlight, and not a thud on the pavement. No waking eye witnessed the strange spectacle, save for perhaps, the person on the other side of the windows, and the lone man on the pavement, who may or may not have been the building's returning master.

* * *

Porthos is our first Chosen, he's Earth! I really do think that Taurus is a fitting Zodiac sign for him. It's practical and down-to-earth…but also loves luxury! I didn't have such a difficult time choosing his element. I think he really is a diamond in the rough. ;)

Again, this is crack, so OOC is expected…I'm not a great writer, so all I really write is crack. No need to take it seriously. XD

Here's Porthos' Zodiac profile. :)

 **Porthos Isaac du Vallon** | _The Might of Gaia_ | Chosen of Earth  
 **Age:** 28  
 **Birthday:** April 22, 11:09 AM  
 **Sun Sign:** Taurus  
 **Moon Sign:** Capricorn  
 **Ascendant:** Virgo

 _And…who just fell out of the window? :O_


End file.
